


Still Waters Run Deep

by haydeetebelins



Category: Le Comte de Monte-Cristo | Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reunion Sex, Stream of Consciousness, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 15:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14897528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haydeetebelins/pseuds/haydeetebelins
Summary: “Do you know what they call lakes in the East?” he asks, teasing. Her voice cannot find him. He stole it and held it even now somewhere at the center of sensation.





	Still Waters Run Deep

He falls familiar against the mattress, their marriage bed dipping against his weight as it remembers the way of this. The ink of his curls brush tenderly against the sharp bones of her collar, her whole body stretching to reach him as his mouth finds her. A greedy mouth, never fully satisfied, stakes it claim across the warmth of her tawny skin, dragging his face down her torso by degrees.

His only guide is the soft shift of her body, the hushed moan that carries in their bedroom. He obeys each readily, kisses lingering where they please her best, brow resting just beneath the beat of her heart. Her husband traces the ladder of her ribs, steadies himself, head still turned down and away from her. When his eyes find her again, Mercedes stills in answer.

She drinks him in like the sea. His full mouth splits slowly into a grin.

“Do you know what I loved best of Greece, dearest?”

His hands, ever-surging, flow over her body, ghosting across her soft breasts as he adjusts himself, drawing himself back to meet her face to face. The only answer Fernand will find is the hushed gasp his actions create, her tender nipples hardening under his rough palms. He catches the sound in the air, breathes a bit harder to have it in his keeping.

“There was a long lake just outside of the palace. The locals called it the Pamvotis, and it was a favorite of mine--”

His touch recedes, pulled back by the command of her need, the proper soldier always so eager to obey. He cups her hip in his grasp, short nails digging into the soft flesh there. Motherhood has given her that much delicateness, at the very least. Fortune might erase all the sharp angles of a poor Catalan, if her husband ever has his way.

He will. Fernand always has his way before the end, by whatever Providence guides him. All thoughts of faith skim away from her as he continues to move his hard hand, now feeling it draw up and down her leg, over the width of it, moving towards her inner thigh. Blood rushes to cheeks already going crimson in double time. His laughter pulls closer as he kisses the scarlet flowers that blossom along her face.

“I would go there, listen to the rush of water, the sound of locals across the way. I thought of you. Always I thought of you.”

In Marseilles, she realizes. The sound of the ships returning, and their neighbors always talking, and the waves rising to kiss the shores just as she kisses him now. He does not need to speak. She already yields to him.

They are not who they were before. Who is he, chasing the girl and her cheap linens across the beach, her hair gathered inelegantly against the base of her skull. Does he forget his wife in pursuit of the bride she was those years ago?

His fingers rub against the pink nub atop her slit. Fernand does not speak, but he asks to continue on all the same. Her invitation mirrors his muteness, lissome legs spreading to allow his touch to better brush across the soft black bramble along her groin. Her eyes do not leave his as she moves. Something reverent pulls across his face, and she knows she still has him.

She always will. What more could a young bride ask from her husband than that? On the other side of the world, he kept her in his heart, in his mind. If he was dreaming of her before their son, before their marriage, before they were made different by loss, who is she to complain? His kiss is a prayer against her lips, and her fingers knot into the loose curls that drape his face, holding him in place as a finger slides into her opening. It is not enough, and the grind of her body against him is her plea, punctuated by his name, by the desperate whine of it.

He kisses it from her, teasing another finger along the outer lips of her opening. The meeting of their mouths deepens as he commits, his finger pushing pleasantly against its mate. Her moan is forced deep into his throat, and he holds it there. A broad thumb makes small circles against her exposed nub, occupying fingers curling and stroking inside of her.

It has been too long. She has almost forgotten this, her body aching for him to remind her.

His voice stirs against the curve of her jaw.

“Do you know what they call lakes in the East?” he asks, teasing. Her voice cannot find him. He stole it and held it even now somewhere at the center of sensation. Her eyes flutter against the feeling of his tongue wet against her neck, his fingers drenched to his worn knuckles.

“Límni,” he rasps, drawing his digits out almost to the edge of her hole, slick and glistening with her arousal.

It is all the same to her, as he slams back into her, returning her voice to her so she can cry his name. Lakes, rivers, the sea, he comes to her by each, soldier or sailor, husband or brother. Her hips roll against him like waves, the whole of her sighing for him. Whatever he calls it, she is there in the depths, soaked, calling for him.

“Límni,” she echoes against his curls, and the girl from Marseilles drowns memories in the still waters her husband offers.


End file.
